by Kayley Cole
"You're a college student that goes to underground fights for fun, and you're wearing the same clothes you wore in high school. You need money."
Her arms tighten around her chest. ”I do need a favor."
"Ask it."
Her gaze shifts away as she chews on her bottom lip. I should reassure her, but it feels like there's so much weight between us that reaching out toward her would just cause more strain.
"I, uh, had a problem. With my roommate. It was completely her fault. Or at least ninety percent her fault. Maybe seventy percent her fault. But she still gets to live in our room and I… I do not get to live in our room."
"Did you punch your roommate?"
She shakes her head. "I accidentally set the dorm on fire."
I open my mouth, then close it. Jesus Christ. "Are you okay? Did you get burned?"
"I'm fine. But I need a place to stay."
"You don't have any friends around here?"
She pinches her lips together. "Nearly everyone I know lives on campus or live in houses with three other people."
"I can't believe that you don't have any other place to go," I say.
"I'm sure I could get somebody else to give me a spot in their house or apartment, but you're someone who owns a house and lives on their own," she says. She's rubbing her bare hands together, the cold finally getting to her. "And before you ask how I could know that you live on your own, you are the only person on earth that would be satisfied living with absolutely nothing in your house."
"You think I'm one of a kind."
Her lip twitches. "Are you going to help me or not?"
"No. Thank you for the ego boost, though."
"Are you kidding me?" she spits out. "You were just telling me that David told you to protect me. Now you don't care?"
"You said you could take care of yourself." I shrug. "I'd say with your drug-taking and your pyromania, you're not doing a good job, but I'm just a stupid survival expert. I offered help, and you rejected it. I'm not a doormat, Emma, and you're not invited to step foot on me whenever it's convenient for you."
She shoves her hands in her coat pockets, looking down at the snow that has been trampled by the prospective Valence Camp members. After a few seconds, she gazes over at the edge of the woods. "How about we make a bet?"
"Now you're becoming a gambling addict too?" I ask, but I look over the woods too. She knows how to bait me— competition is my addiction.
"We'll race to the river," she says, pointing to a trail through the woods. "If I win, I get to stay at your house until the end of the semester— you don't get to hold it over me, and you don't get to ask for anything in return. If..."
"So far, this sounds like a terrible bet."
"If you win, I'll help you with your veteran's organization," she says. "Raising money, giving speeches, encouraging people to join— anything you need."
"You want to have a running competition with someone who teaches survival at the end of January in Colorado?" I ask. "Isn't that like asking to compete against someone who teaches survival in Death Valley in August?"
"Then, you'll take the bet," she says, tilting her head. "You want help, don't you?"
Not at all. But my heart is thrumming with the idea of competition. I've lived my life in the desperate hope of finding stronger and faster people to compare myself to. I'm relatively fast, but having memorized Emma's legs, I'm fairly certain she'd be good competition.
"If I win, you'll let me look out for you without throwing a fit about it," I say. "Then, we have a bet."
She holds out her hand. I shake it. "You ready? Countdown from three?"
I nod. I turn toward the woods. My work boots won't make this easy, but the last thing I want is an easy challenge.
"Three."
I put my right foot forward, leaning into it.
"Two."
I glance over at Emma. She's tied her hair up into a ponytail, but wisps of her hair have escaped, giving her a relaxed appearance that I know she hasn't felt in a long time.
"One."
We take off at the same time, the ball of my foot hitting so hard against the ground that I immediately sprint ahead of her.
It feels like a split second before I'm surging into the woods, trampling down the faint layer of snow. I can sense Emma right behind me, her strides smoother than mine, but my height means that my legs are longer than hers. It's impressive that she can keep up.
We turn. Our feet hit the ground at the same time, the split second of silence between each step nearly transcendent. The cold air feels good against my face, though harsh in my lungs. I should let her pass me— if not to ensure she doesn't feel crushed by the loss, then so I can see her ass.
As I start to slow down, she dashes off the hiking path, toward the east. I speed up again, trying to keep my eye on her as she dodges through the trees, resembling a flash of red and gray through the winter trees as she moves.
She's cutting through the woods to get to the river faster.
I grit my teeth and run after her. Sweat starts to cling to my skin as I catch up to her, but she's much better at dodging between the trees than I am. The river is a little over a mile away from Valence Camp, which would be easy if I weren't so determined to save my ego.
Her ass has the slightest bounce every time one of her feet hits the ground, but I have to remain close to her to see it since the trees keep blocking my view. That's enough motivation for me.
My toe nearly brushes against her ankle a few times, but she always manages to stay an inch or two ahead of me. She's graceful, every step landing exactly where it needs to land to propel her farther away from me. It's the first time she's physically been eluding me in the same way she has been emotionally.
I hear the rush of water, still unfrozen. I switch my strategy, moving to her left. As soon as we're out of the woods, I'll be able to outpace her.
We break out of the woods. There are only about thirty meters left, but she's running faster than she ever was. I ignore my burning thighs as I launch myself the last few feet, but she still just barely beats me. She doesn't slow down, leaping straight into the river. It's even more reckless than swimming into the lake. I jump in after her.
The water is fucking cold. There is no other way to put it, but as I swim back to the surface and I see Emma, I forget the cold. She is a water goddess, a warm prayer on a cold night. I swim closer to her. I expect her to move away or at least brag about how she won, but she watches me like a woman about to be blessed.
Adrenaline and endorphins are electrifying my blood. When I cup her face in my hand, water droplets fall down toward her shoulders and she leans into my touch. The contrast between the chill of the water and the warmth of her body is enough to make her skin feel much hotter, and the heat lingers like it's drawn toward my own body heat.
She turns toward me as I move closer to her, her breasts touching against my chest. I cup my hand on the other side of her face, but then let it drop to her shoulder and down her back. I pull her close to me until our faces are nearly touching. When I kiss her, it doesn't come as a surprise, but an inevitable moment of peace after years of senseless wars that were only ever going to lead to pain and destruction. When she kisses me back, that peace transforms into a golden age.
Her leg twists around my leg. I kiss her harder, leaving my mark. I press my lips against her throat and feel the vibrations as she makes the smallest moan. It's better than a runner's high. She's better than all those times I beat other Marines in every physical competition they egged me to join. She's better than anything in my life by a long shot.
Her leg slides away from mine. She treads water a few inches away from me.
"We can't do this," she says. She's right. We can't. But how badly I want it is enough to rip me to pieces.
She moves back toward me. She kisses my cheek, her lips lingering for the shortest moment. I watch her swim toward the shore, then clamber up onto the dry land. Her sweatpants, weighed down by the w
ater, sag halfway down her ass and I see her lacy black underwear. A perfect woman.
"I'll see you at your house," she says, her body shivering in the cold. I should have forced her to take off her clothes before she got in, so she wasn't risking hypothermia. But I didn't because I am the worst protector in the world. I couldn't protect her brother, and I'm doing a shitty job protecting her.
I swim toward the shore. Emma is right about another thing— I've always been selfish. I didn't stop her from jumping into the river with her clothes on because I wanted to pursue her, and I ignored the signs of David's impending suicide because it was uncomfortable for me to confront. I'll be a better man now. I'll adapt.
Chapter Seven
Emma
I push my bike up to Shane's garage. Shane is shirtless, which is incredibly unfair. There's a thin layer of snow on his front yard, but he's been renovating all day, so sweat trickles down his body to the waistband of his jeans. There are a couple of spots of paint on his skin— one on his chest and one on the left side of his abs. There's also some paint on his jeans, but he doesn't seem inclined to take those off.
"Your truck made a rattling noise when I was driving," I say as he places a wood plank on two sawhorses.
"The window doesn't go all the way up anymore, and it makes that noise once you go over thirty miles per hour." He jots something down on the plank, puts the pencil in his mouth and hooks the measuring tape against the side of the wood. He makes a mark on the wood before setting down the pencil and wiping his hands on his jeans. A faint white outline of his left hand appears near his pocket.
I look away. I'm only watching him because I'm curious about his process. The tingle under my skin has to be an early onset of frostbite.
"Oh." I walk back to the truck and pull out another box. I carry it over to the garage and drop it inside. I stop in front of him, avoiding looking at his bare chest. "So, you earn enough as a survival instructor to buy this house?"
"I've saved up for a while," he says. "But, yeah, I make decent money."
"Enough to eventually fund your foundation?"
He darkens a few of his marks on the wood. "I have other ways to deal with that."
My eyes narrow. "Is your other way of dealing with it illegal, immoral, or harmful?"
"For someone who cheated during our race, you're quick to insinuate about what I'm doing."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I didn't cheat. I said we were racing to the river. You just chose to use the hiking path and I didn't."
He picks the wood plank back up and starts to head back toward the house. Ever since the incident at the river, he's seemed to orbit around me without ever actually getting close. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but being treated with kid gloves is a reminder that he used to touch me like I was invincible.
"Whatever you're doing, I could help you with it," I offer.
He laughs, stopping in front of his door and shifting the plank in his hands. "Definitely not."
"Come on. We already know I can run faster than you. Who knows what else I could do better than you?"
"It's not about what you can do." He shifts the wood again and scratching near his scar on his face. "You don't need to be involved. I can handle it on my own."
"If you're stealing, I can be your getaway car. If you're committing contract killings, I can help clean up. If you're a male prostitute, I can help you find clients."
"You wouldn't do any of those things. You'd be more likely to turn me in."
"That's not true," I move back to his truck, taking out another box. He watches me carry it and drop it onto the other box. "Like you said before, I need the money."
A teal dump truck screeches to a stop a few houses down. Shane and I both turn to watch a younger man with short blonde hair jump out of the truck and run straight toward us. He's wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans. I look over at Shane, half expecting him to run to protect me. Instead, he's shaking his head, leaning the plank against the house and opening the front door.
The man runs right past me to Shane's front door, smacking him on the arm before passing right into the house. Shane closes the door, remaining on the porch.
"Who the hell was that?" I ask.
"You don't recognize Brian?"
My eyebrows shoot up so fast that I feel a twinge in my forehead. "That was Brian? He finally gained some weight in the military."
Shane's upper lip twitches— jealousy? He looks over at his plank as I start to hear sirens. As I close up the back of his truck, four police cars turn onto the street, all of them stopping right beside the dump truck.
Shane walks over toward me as the policemen get out of their cars. He drapes his arm around my waist.
"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to squirm out of his grasp. He tightens his arm around me.
"Acting casual," he says. "You should try it sometime."
If he wants to keep his arm around me, there's not much I can do about it. I may be able to run faster, but he could beat me in any strength test without breaking a single sweat. "What do you think Brian did that has all these policemen chasing him?"
"I don't know, Emma, but he didn't do it very well if this is how he's dealing with the aftermath."
"Should we go inside?"
"No. If they come over here, I want to be able to stall long enough for Brian to get out of the house. If I only come out after they're here, it will only make them suspicious that we're stalling them."
"You say that like you've done this before."
"Yeah, except Brian was supposed to be stalling. He retreated back into the house and came running out when the police got to his yard. Luckily, his acting skills have improved since then, and I can run fast when there are no trees in my way."
The police hover around the dump truck like worker bees getting ready to worship their queen. I wait, anxiety gripping me, but at the same time it's a better rush than jumping into a freezing lake or river. Every time a policeman looks over at us my heart nearly stops, and when one starts walking toward us, I feel Shane's hand tighten around my waist.
"Hello, officer," Shane says. The police officer nods at us.
"Hello, folks," he says. "We're just wondering if you saw a man get out of that dump truck?"
Shane shakes his head. "I'm sorry, officer. My girlfriend and I just got out of my truck after we heard that dump truck stop. We thought maybe they were just going to start some construction work around here. We were moving her boxes into my house when we saw the police cars. She wanted to make sure everything was okay. Did something happen? Is the truck driver hurt?"
"Uh, no, sir. He's suspected of committing a serious crime."
"Wow," Shane says. I can hear the slight edge of sarcasm in his voice, but the police officer doesn't catch it.
"If you do see him, just let one of the officers know. If nobody is around, call our department." As the officer turns away, his eyes linger on me for a second longer than they should. As he moves away, Shane removes his arm from my waist.
"That was lucky," I say.
"No, he just wasn't that smart. Let's go in. They'll get cold soon and decide Brian is a lost cause."
I follow him inside. Brian is sitting in one of the two patio chairs in the middle of the main room.
"I thought we had a deal," Shane says to Brian. Brian smirks.
"I am a great believer in luck. The harder I work, the more of it I seem to have. Coleman Cox. That's why I'm always making new deals and always looking for new opportunities. It's also why I have the best luck of anyone."
"You were shot in the leg in Iraq."
"I only have a limp, and the ladies love a good war story. A little bit higher and my junk would have been shot off, so I consider that pretty lucky."
Shane glances at me. "Pardon him."
Brian raises an eyebrow at me. "My goodness gracious, if it isn't little Emma Chisom. Beauty is not caused. It is. Emily Dickinson. And you are the embodiment of beauty."
"I'm b
eginning to suspect you were shot because you wouldn't shut up," Shane says, grabbing him by the shoulder as he steps toward me. The two of them look at each other. It reminds me of a wolf staring down a coyote that has made the mistake of hunting on its territory.
"Nah. I was shot because an enemy soldier had me in his crosshairs. I also shot at him. I think my aim was a little better, but I'll never know because I was too busy being in agony to check if he was dead. But he didn't shoot again, so I'm pretty confident he was."
"You're always confident."
"I am," he agrees. He smiles at me. "So, Emma, how's life?"
As I'm about to respond, there's a flash of memory— Shane and Brian at David's senior party. It was easy to forget until now because Brian looks so different, but I remember them all laughing— Brian's smile the same as it is now— and eating together. They left at some point to celebrate with some more friends and, in all likelihood, to drink. Seeing Shane and Brian so close to each other, it feels like there was a tear in the universe. David should be right between them. David should be here, laughing at their antics. He shouldn't be six feet underground, slowly rotting away.
"I'm going upstairs," I say. Shane reaches toward me, but I sidestep away from his hand. I run up the stairs, trying to think of anything but the way grief has laid over my brain and suffocated all of my other thoughts. I try not to think about how I've put myself into this position where pain is inevitable, and the only way Shane and I can exist close to each other is if I disregard my brother's death.
I collapse onto Shane's air mattress. I close my eyes and wait for sleep to erase everything in my head.
Chapter Eight
Shane
"His wife gave me the keys to that dump truck," Brian insists as he rides beside me in my truck. It's nearly midnight. When I glance over at him, he looks like a floating glowing head because of his black clothes.
"His wife, who you were sleeping with," I say.
"Yeah, sure, fine, I'm a terrible person for sleeping with someone's wife," he says. "But I needed that dump truck for my next scam."
